


Love Like Ghosts

by SteadyAsSheGoes



Category: A Little Princess (1995), Titanic (1997)
Genre: 7 were saved from the water, Drama & Romance, Love Letters, Maybe a little bit of magic, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteadyAsSheGoes/pseuds/SteadyAsSheGoes
Summary: It's 1917 and Jack is drafted to fight in WWI. Rose is waiting for him in New York, but things don't go as planned. As they have before, they'll try to fight their way back to each other. But it won't be easy.
Relationships: Jack Dawson/Rose DeWitt Bukater
Comments: 19
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilerish, but if you know the plot of A Little Princess (the Alfonso Cuarón movie version, rather than the book), you'll likely know where this is going. But there will be some side adventures and banter and fluff along the way. The title is borrowed from Lord Huron.

_Summer, 1917_

“What about New York?” 

Jack looked up. He’d been sitting across from her in silence for nearly an hour, sketchbook propped on his knee, but the paper in front of him was still blank. “Really?” 

“Why not?” Rose asked. She brushed a tendril of hair back from her face, squinting in the light of the setting sun. She was lying across the ratty armchair, her bare feet dangling over one arm. The book she’d been reading lay across her stomach. Its pages moved as she spoke. “I know the city well enough. And it wouldn’t be difficult for me to find work.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” 

Rose shook her head. They’d stayed too long already. He knew that. It was how they’d found him in the first place. 

Jack looked back down at the blank page in front of him. He tried not to make room for guilt or regret, but they sometimes found a way in anyway. 

It had been his idea to stop in Los Angeles. Rose had wanted to go on, to continue their explorations across the country as they’d been doing for the past four years. But Jack had seen the longing in her eyes when she looked at mothers passing with their children, and he wondered if that could be just as much of an adventure. Besides, he was tired. Not that he had admitted that to her. 

By then, he’d long since stopped worrying about Rose - at least about her ability and desire to keep up on the road. From their first few moments on solid ground, they’d fallen into an easy rhythm. He’d kept her safe and she’d kept him warm. They tackled the rest together. 

But sometimes, when his guard was down or they found themselves in the middle of an unlucky stretch, that old fear crept in. She could still tire of their nomadic life. One day, she could tire of him. He still sometimes wondered if Cal and her mother and the rest had been right about him. 

Those fears had disintegrated again as he watched her face when they arrived at the Santa Monica Pier for the first time the previous fall. 

“Oh, Jack,” she’d whispered, her arms looped around his neck. “It’s better than I even imagined.” 

“I’m glad I didn’t talk it up too much,” he’d said, kissing her soft skin. 

“Can we stay here for a little while?” she’d asked. “I’d like to try this ocean.” 

“Sure,” he’d said. “If you like.” 

They stayed for three weeks, more or less an average stretch of time for them. They found their usual odd jobs and spent their nights cuddled together in cramped rooms or camped out beneath the stars. They swam in the Pacific and made love in an orange grove, surrounded by the sweet, clean air. When November came, Jack had once again found Rose studying maps, one of his pencils tucked between her teeth. He knew she was ready, knew that she would agree to go wherever he pointed to next. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t. 

“What do you think about staying on for the winter?” he’d asked her. 

Rose decided she liked the idea, especially when Jack found the tiny cottage with the orange tree in the backyard. Winter bloomed into spring and then ripened to summer. And then, the end of July had brought the letter. Jack had known what it was the second he saw it, sticking out of their mailbox. It was the first time he’d had a mailbox, the first time in ten years that he’d had a real address. 

For a long time, Jack had lived as though he were a ghost. He never stayed in one place too long, accumulated as little as possible, and sometimes didn’t even use his real name. He got what he could out of each adventure, picking up new skills and learning new things about people and the way they made their worlds turn. And then he would leave, disappearing into the night like he’d never been there at all. Few would ever know he even existed. But that had all been before Rose. She was memorable, and she made him more memorable. More solid. But he didn’t mind. Sometimes it was as though she made him more real. 

Jack had opened the envelope with shaking hands. He’d had to fill out a registration card in order to keep his job with the carpenter downtown when the draft was announced. Jack had thought about quitting instead, but the pay was too good and he enjoyed the work. So he’d filled out the card, refusing to give it too much thought or worry.

Part of him - the part that convinced Rose - had believed that the notice would never come, or that they would be long gone by the time it did. But then there it was, real and solid in his hands. He was to report in North Carolina on the first of September. Then he’d be going to Europe to fight. There was no way around it. 

“Jack?” Rose was still looking at him. “If we leave next week we could be there before you…” She couldn’t say it either. _Before you have to go_. “We could take the train. We have the money. I counted. It will eat up some of our savings but it would be fun.” 

“If that’s what you want,” he said. 

“It’s not.” She stood up and crossed the room, her hair burning like fire in the fading sunlight. A second later, her fingers were tangled in his hair and her lips were pressed against his neck. “Must you go?” 

“Afraid so,” he said. They’d already had this conversation, or at least a version of it. He could run. _They_ could run. They’d done it before. But it would be something else to run from, and Jack didn’t want that for her. “It’ll be alright, Rosie.” 

“You don’t know that.” It was as dark as she ever let herself get. 

Rose wanted to go with him. She’d talked about volunteering as a nurse. She’d thought that trying to stay together would be the only way to survive it. But Jack had managed to talk her out of it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do what he’d need to do with her so close. 

“Have I ever steered us wrong?” he asked, pulling her onto his lap. He watched as she caught his sketchbook and carefully set it on the table. The gesture only made him hold her tighter.

“Never.” She didn’t point out that he’d been the one to fill out the registration card in the first place. Rose kissed the corner of his mouth. “Except perhaps the incident in Boise.” 

“Ah, but we don’t speak of the Boise incident,” he grinned. He thought of Rose, running down the dusty road beside him, barefoot with her hair loose, a shoe in each hand. Jack swept a few wild curls from the back of her neck and kissed the bare skin hidden there. She tasted citrus-sweet. 

“Jack,” she whispered, turning to face him. 

“I’ll be alright,” he said. It was a promise now. 

“But what will I do without you?” she asked. 

“Oh, you’ll be bored and terribly grouchy.” Jack’s fingers brushed across the creases of her smile. “But you’ll be alright, too.”

Rose nodded, but Jack could tell she didn’t quite believe it. Not yet. He stood up, lifting her into his arms as he did. 

“Come on,” he said. “It’s much too hot for clothing.” 

Rose didn’t protest as he carried her into the bedroom and began to peel off her summer dress. He went slower than was necessary, wanting to savor every second, every breath. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that they were somewhere else, that it was another time. 

Outside, beyond their window, the breeze rustled the bougainvillea leaves and blew a burst of sweet air into the room. Jack breathed it in as he laid Rose on the bed, and imagined they could fly.


	2. Chapter 2

The energy of New York sang to Rose like a song she’d forgotten. 

They’d spent a year in the city once, their first together. They’d learned each other there, and Rose wondered if that’s why she had chosen it now, for the first time they were to be apart from each other. 

The cross country train trip had been hot and long, but Rose was right; it had been fun. She was glad she hadn’t decided to surprise him with first class tickets like she’d originally planned. First, it would have taken all of their savings and then some. Second, she knew Jack still sometimes suspected that she missed her old life, even though she never did. Third, she didn’t want him to believe she was thinking about last hurrahs, even though she was. 

They checked into a hotel downtown for the week and stayed in bed for the first three days, only leaving to eat. They spent their time rediscovering each other’s bodies, kissing every inch of skin, and finding new ways to make each other moan. They made love and slept and made love again before venturing outside in darkness, weak and hungry like vampires. 

Rose woke early on the morning of the fourth day. She lay still, listening to the sounds of the city. The windows were open, the curtains still. It was the last week of August and the air was already sticky with heat. But she still lay close to Jack, as close as she could. She ran her fingers through the strands of his hair. They were as soft and golden as the summer sun, and they smelled of soap and sweat and something unmistakably Jack. 

“Enjoy it while you can,” he said sleepily. And then, as though he realized what he’d said, he quickly rolled to face her. “I’m cutting it off this afternoon.” 

“All of it?” Rose asked. She couldn’t let herself cry. Not yet. 

“Most of it.”

Rose reached up and threaded her fingers through it again. “Save me some?” 

“Really?” he grinned as Rose felt her cheeks burn. 

“Yes,” she said, not caring how silly she sounded. “Your hair is like sunshine.” 

Jack gently wound a handful of her tangled curls around his finger. “I wish I could take yours with me.” 

“I wish you could take _me_ with you,” she said softly. Not interested in reviving this particular argument, Rose continued before he could say anything. “Better yet, I wish you could stay here with me.” 

“Me too.” 

“What if you did?” she asked, knowing she was edging dangerously close to a different argument. “What if we stayed here just like this until it was all over?” 

“That would be nice,” he said lightly. “But you know we can’t.” 

_Why not?_ Rose bit it back. It would have been one thing if he had managed to avoid registration altogether. Then maybe they could have pretended it wasn’t happening at all. But he hadn’t and now it was a matter of honor. Jack had to go. He wouldn’t let himself run from it. 

“I know,” she said quietly. 

“What do you say I take you out dancing tonight?” he asked, trying to sound bright. 

“I’d like that,” she said, matching his tone. “We haven’t done that in a while.” 

“I have some errands to run first.” He kissed her shoulder and grinned. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see daylight.” 

Rose nodded. “I need to start looking for a job,” she said. _And a place to live_ , she added silently. Then she thought about how lonely she would be without him, and added one more thing to the list. _And maybe a friend._

Rose met Frances purely by chance. She’d meant to spend the morning job hunting, but she’d gotten distracted. First while searching for a gift for Jack, and then while wandering through a bookstore. By the time she emerged, it was mid-afternoon and she was woozy with hunger. Rose crossed the street and walked into a small, bustling cafe. 

August sunlight filtered through the windows as Rose sat at a small table near the counter. She ate a tomato and cheese sandwich and drank lemonade that reminded her of summer days in California. When the waitress came with the bill, Rose looked up and smiled. 

“Pardon me,” she said. “But your lipstick is gorgeous. It’s the perfect shade.” 

“Thank you,” the girl said. Her brown hair was escaping from what Rose thought had once been a neat bun, and she wore no makeup aside from the swipe of crimson across her lips. She flushed at the compliment. “It’s my roommate’s doing. She works at the makeup counter over at Macy’s. I never know what to do with any of it.” 

“Well it looks lovely on you,” Rose said. She glanced around the busy restaurant before she looked back at the girl. “Could I ask you something?” 

“Sure,” she said. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know if this place needs an extra hand do you?” Rose asked. 

“If it were up to me it does,” the girl said. She looked over her shoulder, her gaze falling on a portly middle aged man behind the counter. “Let me talk to Mr. Benson over there. He’s the boss. Have you done this before? Not that there’s much to it.” 

“Oh, yes.” Rose smiled easily, her eyes finding Mr. Benson's. There was no harm in flirting a little, if it helped put money in her pocket. 

When Rose left the restaurant almost an hour later, she had the promise of a new job and a lead on a new apartment. The waitress - Frances - lived in a building for single working women downtown, and her neighbor down the hall had just moved out that morning. Rose wasn’t single, but she imagined she’d be able to talk herself into the room, especially with Jack going off to where he was going. 

That’s how she had to think about it. Jack was going away, he was leaving for a while, he was going to where he was going. It was almost as though he was going to work, or running an errand. Rose knew it wasn’t like that at all, but it helped move her forward. 

She returned to their little room before he did, and she hid her gift for him beneath the mattress. Rose then headed off for the bath, intent on scrubbing herself until her skin sparkled. 

She lay lazily in the tub, listening to the busy late afternoon chatter beneath the open window. The last time she’d been in New York, it had been April. She and Jack had stayed for almost exactly a year. They’d left hastily, boarding a train to Chicago two days before the anniversary. It had rained the day they left, same as the day they arrived. Jack said that was good luck. 

It had surprised her, at first, to learn how superstitious he was. Then again, she’d always secretly believed there was something magical about him, so perhaps it made sense. He’d taught her so much in those first days. Those first weeks, months, and years spent traveling together. They’d gotten married during that first summer and on that day, Rose had felt like she was magical, too. 

Rose stood and got out of the tub. She wrapped the rest of the lavender soap in its wax paper. It was her favorite kind, made and sold out of a little shop near where their first tenement apartment had been. They’d left New York in such a hurry and Rose had always regretted not stocking up first. This time she’d bought three bars. Enough to see her through the rest of the summer, with a spare to tuck into Jack’s bag. 

A wave of sadness and fear hit her then, so strong it made her knees buckle. Rose sat on the edge of the tub and held her breath. She hadn’t been without him, not for a single day since they were pulled from the water. She hadn’t slept without him since that night. She didn’t remember how to sleep without his arms around her. How could the world insist on turning her gentle Jack into a soldier? She tried to picture his hands, the ones that so carefully held her or his charcoal, holding a gun. The thought frightened her. 

Sometimes, when Jack’s superstitions rubbed off on her, Rose wondered if they were each other’s good luck charm. Good things happened when they were together. Nothing was impossible when it was the two of them. 

Rose suddenly felt cold, despite the heat of the afternoon. She tried to push the thought away, but it came unbidden. A thought that stubborn was certain to be an unlucky one.

With a shiver, Rose began to wonder about the kinds of things that could happen when they were apart.


	3. Chapter 3

“Rose?” 

Jack called her name as he turned the doorknob and stepped into the room. Beads of sweat rolled down his neck and he wiped them away with one hand while he gripped his packages and the bouquet of lilies with the other. 

“I’m here,” she said. She turned from the small vanity where she’d been fixing her hair. Jack almost dropped everything he was holding at the sight of her. Even after five years, looking at her still made him dizzy with longing, just as it had that first time. She smiled. 

Rose was wearing her finest dress, one of deep green silk trimmed with white lace that made her eyes dance. Her hair was long down her back but pinned away from her face, though a few damp curls escaped and fell across her creamy skin like glowing embers. 

“Your hair,” she gasped, before he could find his voice. 

Jack dumped everything except the flowers onto the bed and ran a hand through his newly close cropped hair. He’d suspected they would have cut it off when he arrived, and he’d wanted to do it first, on his own terms. 

“It’s different,” he said, trying to read her expression. 

“You look very handsome,” she said. “You always look handsome.” 

“You always look beautiful,” he said. “But right now…” 

Rose had a devilish gleam in her eyes. “If I take all this off, it’s not going back on.” 

“Promise?” Jack grinned. He walked toward her and kissed her before handing her the bouquet of pink and orange flowers. They were sunset colors, the kind he always thought of when he pictured her. 

“Thank you,” she said, leaning up to kiss him again. “These are beautiful.” 

“There’s a little something else in there,” he said bashfully. He watched Rose peel back the paper, and then a trill of laughter escaped her lips. Tied to the stem of the largest flower was a lock of his hair. 

“You remembered,” she said. She pressed it to her nose as though it were a flower too. 

“I did,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m so late. Do I have time to get cleaned up?” 

“If you insist,” she said. 

“I do. I smell like the city again.” 

“It reminds me of then,” Rose said softly. She leaned toward him. “It reminds me of our wedding.” 

“I smelled like this and you still married me?” Jack asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

“And I’d do it all over again,” she nodded. 

Jack grinned. “I guess that makes me pretty damn lucky.” 

He scrubbed quickly and changed into the shirt he knew Rose liked best. It was blue, almost the exact color of his eyes. Rose said it made her feel like she was flying when she looked at him. Soon they were walking hand in hand through the city streets, looking for a place to eat. They chose a small, dim restaurant near the water and ordered wine and too much food. 

Halfway through, Jack realized he wasn’t tasting anything. In forty-eight hours he’d be somewhere completely different. And for the first time in five years, Rose wouldn’t be beside him. The thought of it threatened to turn the food to dust in his mouth.

They went dancing in a dark hall after dinner. Jack pulled Rose close to him and held her hand while he spun her around the floor. She leaned her head into his shoulder, her hair sticking to his skin. They danced together for hours, moving until they were too tired to think about anything at all. They drank more wine and then shared a cigarette on the way back to the hotel, moving slowly as they walked along the Hudson. 

The night was humid and cloudy and there weren’t any stars. Jack fleetingly wondered if that was a bad omen, if it meant that darkness had finally come for him. Rose was tucked in close beside him, one of her arms around his waist. He breathed out. Darkness was impossible with her so close. 

“I love dancing with you,” she said, her words slightly slurred. She giggled. “You’re so... _sturdy._ ” 

“Sturdy?” he asked, looking down at her. He didn’t feel all that sturdy. Not right then, anyway. 

“It’s a good thing,” she said. “You’re strong and you’re sure and it means you won’t lose me.” 

“I could never lose you, Rosie,” he said. He twirled a lock of her hair around one finger. “You’re too bright.” 

“Jack?” Her voice was smaller now. He didn’t know when it had happened, but they’d stopped moving. 

“Hmm?” He leaned his head down so it rested on top of hers. He could smell the lavender in her hair. 

“What if something happens?” 

She was staring out across the water, her eyes shining with memory. She wouldn’t have let herself say it if it hadn’t been for the wine. He knew that. 

“It won’t.” 

They’d disembarked somewhere around here, he realized. Further uptown, but on this same stretch of water. It had been so cold that night. Standing in the summer heat, it was hard to remember how cold he’d been then. His skin was still blue when they’d stepped off the ship. He’d insisted Rose take their only blanket and she’d stood with it held open until he ducked in beside her. 

“I know.” 

“Rose.” Jack stopped talking as he looked down at his shoes. His head suddenly throbbed with booze and hatred. There were moments he hated himself too thoroughly to even look at her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” She slipped a finger beneath his chin and tilted his face up. There was no anger in her eyes. None of the disappointment he’d imagined. “I liked it there, too. I didn’t want to leave either.” 

“You did,” he said. “You wanted to go before we even decided to stay. Before I said we should stay. None of this would have happened if we’d just gone.” 

“You don’t know that,” she said. “Sometimes whatever’s going to happen just happens.” 

It was a version of something he’d said to her before. A version of something his father had always said. _You can always put your faith in the stars. They know what’s meant to happen and they’ll see that it does._ Jack could still hear his voice sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough. Thinking about his father always made him think about his mother. She hadn’t been so absolute. She’d believed in belief itself. 

“Rose, I need you to promise me something,” he said carefully. “If something should happen - ”

“Jack.” She said his name like a plea. 

“Listen to me,” he said. It sounded much more urgent than he’d meant it to. But maybe it was. “If something should happen, just remember that I will find my way back to you. Even if it seems hopeless. Even if it seems like I can’t. I will. I _will_.” 

“You’re too involved now,” she murmured. She squeezed his hand and their wedding rings pressed together. 

“That’s right,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s going to be alright. I need you to believe that.” 

“I do,” she said. 

“Do you promise me?” 

“I do,” she repeated. “I promise.” 

It was selfish, he knew. Selfish in a way he’d never let himself be before. But she had to believe it. He wondered if her belief in him could keep them safe. He wondered if it was enough to keep them whole.


	4. Chapter 4

“Let me go in by myself,” Rose said, eyeing the building. It was painted an earthy dark green, with a large circular window near the turreted roof. The lacquered front door perched atop a set of steep stone steps. 

“Are you sure?” Jack asked, a frown at the edges of his mouth. 

“Yes,” Rose said. If she was going to talk her way into this, it would be easier without a man standing beside her. She pointed down the block, toward a set of tables and chairs outside a small diner on the opposite side of the street. “Why don’t you go sit down there and get a drink and I’ll meet you as soon as I’m done.” 

Jack grinned knowingly at her. He’d taught her plenty during their time together, but this was one skill she’d already possessed. He had always encouraged her to follow her instincts, though, and he rarely questioned them. 

“Don’t be too long,” he said, leaning to kiss her. 

Rose watched him go, studying his easy long strides as he made his way across the street. This could be any other day. They could have been on their way anywhere. 

She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. She’d considered taking it off, in order to invent someone new. But the truth would come easier, and it would be simple enough to sell. Rose took a breath and started up the steps. She smoothed a hand over her hair, pinned up off her neck, as she rang the bell. 

A tall, straight-backed woman opened the door. She had black hair with a single shock of grey running through the middle, pulled back into a severe bun. It, combined with her scowl, sharpened her already birdlike features to a point. Rose couldn’t determine her age. 

“Yes?” she asked. 

“Hello,” Rose said cheerfully. She decided to get right to it. “I understand there’s a vacancy.” 

The woman frowned. “You’re mistaken,” she said. 

“Oh, I do apologize,” Rose said, reading the lie easily. “Is this not the Porter Hotel?” 

“It is,” the woman said simply. “How do you know we have room?” 

Rose hid her smile. “I happened to meet the girl who just vacated,” she lied. “Just yesterday while doing my shopping.” 

“Marian?” A male voice was approaching. “Who is that?” 

“No one,” the woman said, her eyes still staring at Rose. A new face appeared on the other side of the door. She guessed him to be in his forties. His face was lined but not severe like his companion’s. He had warm green eyes and short, clean dark hair that was slicked back from his face. 

“My name’s Rose,” she said quickly. “I’ve come to inquire about the vacancy.” 

He looked at her, his stare much kinder than the woman’s glare. “Well, do come in out of the heat, my dear.” His voice had an aristocratic lilt to it. It might have been pleasant if it hadn’t been so familiar. 

“Thank you,” she said, following him into the foyer. She brushed past the woman - Marian - who closed the door with a hard slam. 

“We only accept single women,” Marian said as they entered a small wood paneled office off the entryway. Rose could feel her staring at the ring on her finger as they stood on the red woven rug. “Are you widowed?” 

“No,” Rose said, swallowing around the sudden lump that had appeared in her throat at the thought. She wondered if she should lie, but it felt too dangerous to say it out loud. “My husband is serving in Europe. We had a place across town, but he doesn’t like me there alone.” Her eyes moved to the man, who had taken a seat behind the tidy desk. “I’m sure you can understand.” 

“I do,” he nodded. “I’m Henry Porter. This is my wife, Marian.” 

Rose tried not to let the surprise register on her face. Even though there was little resemblance, she’d wondered if they were brother and sister or related in some other way. They made a mismatched couple. Suddenly she understood much more about Marian’s harshness. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Rose said. 

“And you as well, Mrs…” Henry trailed off. 

“Dawson,” she said. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson, but we do only accept single women,” Marian said. 

“I just thought that maybe you might be willing to make an exception,” Rose said, keeping her eyes on Marian. She already had Henry. It was Marian she’d have to convince. “To tell you the truth, my husband doesn’t like me staying alone but it’s also that I don’t like staying alone.” She thought of the bills she’d counted out carefully that morning. “I won’t be any trouble.” 

Marian was quiet long enough for her husband to accept her silence as agreement. “You’ll have to share a room with another girl,” he said. “All our girls do. You are to maintain steady employment and there are no men or alcohol permitted in your room. You’ll be expected to clean up after yourself and keep your room clean. It’s four dollars a week, with breakfast and dinner included. We require the first month up front if you’re staying on.” 

Sixteen dollars. After the train trip, the hotel, the meals, and all the little luxuries they’d been allowing themselves in the city, it was nearly everything. But she liked it there. She could already hear the chatter coming from the living room at the other end of the house. She wouldn’t be so lonely there. 

Rose thrust the money onto the desk. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “You won’t regret it.” 

“See that we don’t,” Marian said. “Come along, I’ll show you to your room.” 

Rose hurried to meet Jack as soon as she heard the door close behind her. 

“Any luck?” he asked, looking up from his sketchbook as she sank into the chair across from him. 

Rose nodded. “It’s darling in there,” she said. “I’m sharing a room but I’ll have my own bed. Most of the girls were at work but the ones who were there seemed lovely.” 

“Well then we should celebrate,” Jack said. He gestured to the glass of lemonade at her place. The glass was sweating, but ice cubes still bobbed to the surface. Rose raised her glass and clinked it against his. 

They spent their last night in the city together, trying to stave off the daylight. They went dancing again, pulling each other close in the darkened room. Rose followed where he led her, like always. She leaned her nose into the space between his throat and his collarbone and breathed him in, wishing she could bottle the smell. 

They finally collapsed before sunrise, spent and tangled together on the bed. But neither of them slept. 

They’d gone quiet in those early morning hours, lying face to face, drinking each other in. Jack closed his eyes as he reached out and traced his fingertips over her face. His rough calluses tickled her skin, though his touch was featherlight. 

“What are you doing?” Rose whispered into the dawn-grey light. “Trying to memorize me by heart?” 

Jack shook his head and opened his eyes. “I already know you by heart.” 

Rose reached up to touch his wrist and then guided his fingers to her lips. She kissed each one, and then tucked her head to his chest. His strong arms went around her, warm and sure and safe. They waited until the room was light before they moved again. 

They dressed quietly and then Jack turned to her. He held a stack of bills out to her awkwardly. 

“What's all that?” she asked dumbly. 

“I want you to have enough that you won’t have to worry. Just in case.” His voice was tight, thick with something she didn’t want to think about. “I sold some drawings.” 

Rose eyed the thickness of the stack in her hand. “Which ones?” 

“Not those,” Jack said. Pink began creeping up his neck toward his ears as he flushed. “Those are mine. Ours.” 

“You better not go around showing any of your new Army friends,” she said, as though the word didn’t make her want to crack in half. 

“Actually,” Jack said. He lifted his sketchbook from the dresser and held it out to her. “Would you keep them safe for me?” 

Fear twisted her stomach. “You’re not bringing this with you?” 

“I’d hate to lose another one.“ He looked like he regretted saying it the second it had left his mouth. “I doubt I’ll have much time to draw, anyway.” 

“You have to,” Rose insisted. “You have to make time for it. It’s who you are.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Jack said. 

“I do,” Rose said. “Please, Jack. Bring it with you. You’ll be glad to have it.” 

“Alright,” he said. Rose suspected it was simply because he didn’t have the heart to argue with her today. He opened the cover and removed the photograph that had been tucked inside. Rose knew what it was. They only had one photo of the two of them, taken the previous fall. There’d been no money for a wedding photo in 1912, so they’d tried to recreate it when they had a little more. 

In it, the two of them stood on the Santa Monica Pier, hand in hand. Rose held a big bunch of wildflowers in her other hand and Jack’s hair fell into his face with the wind. The Pacific Ocean was behind them, the sun setting over the waves. They were both smiling as though each could see the other out of the corners of their eyes. 

“You should at least keep this, then,” he said. He looked at it longingly as he held it out to her. 

“You don’t want to take it?” 

“I told you,” he said, looking up. “I know you by heart.” 

Rose took the photo. She watched the way his eyes followed it. “We could get some others taken today,” she said. 

Jack shook his head. “There isn’t time.” 

There was. There could be. But Rose knew he might not want to remember today when there were so many other memories he could think about instead. Before she knew what she was doing, Rose felt herself folding and then tearing the photo in half. She was careful and when she was finished, she held a photograph of each of them. She handed herself to Jack. 

“I’ll stitch it back together again when you come home.” 

Jack’s lips were on hers before she had time to breathe. 

Grand Central was packed with people. Most were young men who stood in front of teary eyed families or lovers, their faces pale and uncertain. 

There was a familiar, foreboding energy on the platform. Rose thought she remembered it. It conjured the cold, the dark, the sea. She looked at the faces around her. Many of these men would never make it home again. Did the women they were kissing know that? 

She tried to study their faces. She didn’t want to remember, but she’d done the same thing as the ship had lifted into the night. She’d memorized the doomed faces around her, the way their eyes searched hers. 

“Jack,” she said, turning to him. This was it, but there was still time. They could still do it. They could start running here and now and not stop. They could become different people entirely, as she’d done once before. They could reach for the horizon again and let the wind blow them like tumbleweeds. 

“Don’t, Rose,” he said. His voice echoed another plea from another time. _Get on the boat, Rose_. But this time she would be the one staying behind. “Please.” 

She laid a palm on each of his cheeks. They were cool, despite the summer heat. “You’re going to be just fine.” She said it like command, like a magic spell. 

“I know.” He said it like he believed it. “So will you.” 

Needing something else to do, Rose thrust the parcel she carried into his hand. “Open it,” she said. 

Jack obeyed, revealing the set of pastels she’d picked out a few days earlier. 

“I wanted you to have some color.” She left the rest unsaid. _Please keep drawing. Please don’t stop being you._

“Thank you,” Jack said, kissing her forehead. He reached into his pack and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper. “I got you something, too.” 

Rose unwrapped the paper and found a notebook stuffed with thick lined paper and bound with a leather cover. It looked like a smaller version of his sketchbook. 

“We’ll write to each other,” Jack said. “Every day if I can. But it will get harder when I…” he swallowed. “I want to know everything you’re doing. Everything that’s happening. And the rest you can put in here. I thought that since you’re always reading, maybe you’d like to write some stories of your own. And when I come back you can read them all to me.” 

Rose held the notebook in her hands and flipped through the blank pages, waiting to be filled with words. _Her_ words. It was such a thoughtful gift. Exactly the sort of gift Jack would pick. The train whistled. 

“Don’t wander without me, Rosie,” Jack said. He stroked his thumb over her lips. “At least not too far.” 

“How could I when I need you to come home to me?” she asked. There were tears in her eyes and she tried to blink them away. 

“I will come home to you,” he said seriously. “I promise.” 

She almost told him not to make promises he couldn’t keep, but she swallowed it. “I’ll be waiting,” she said instead. 

“Good.” He held her face in his hands. His eyes were so blue that Rose wondered if he might cry. She’d never seen Jack cry before, and if he did now she knew she would start and never stop. “God, I love you, Rose,” he said. “So much.”

“I love you too,” she said, laying one of her hands on top of his. “I’ll love you forever.” 

A weak smile flashed across his lips. “Hey, we’re not…” he trailed off then because they _were_ saying goodbyes. It would be foolish to pretend otherwise. 

“We are,” she said. “But just for now.” 

“Just for now,” he agreed. The train whistled again. “I’ll be home before you know it. I’m coming back. I don’t care what I have to do, but I’m coming back to you.” 

Rose threw her arms around him. She squeezed him as tight as she could. “Please be careful, Jack,” she whispered in his ear. “Please be safe.” 

“I will,” he said, pulling her tight. “I will.”

They held onto each other for as long as they could, their hands pressed together until the train doors were closing. Rose followed alongside, searching for his face in the windows until the platform ended. 

“Oh, god, Jack,” Rose whispered, watching the train disappear down the track. She choked on the sob at the back of her throat. She was crying now, fat, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. She tried to catch her breath as she clasped her hands over her mouth. “I love you. Oh, I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "I already know you by heart" thing is classic A Little Princess, but I liked it for them. Also, the Porter is based off the Martha Washington Hotel and similar places that were in NYC around the same time (but a much smaller version).


	5. Chapter 5

_  
Dear Rose,  
Well, here I am. They’ve sent us to a training camp they built just for the occasion in Charlotte. We almost wound up near here once, remember? I promise not to enjoy a single thing about North Carolina until you and I can come back together. _

_They’ve set up a whole battlefield for us to practice on. We’re up before the sun and go until almost midnight. It’s after lights out now but the moon is almost full and it’s hard to sleep without you next to me._

_There’s about two dozen of us in one room and I think I’ve met just about all of them, between meals and the drills. My bunkmate is from New York, but the guys in the bunks on either side of us are all from New England. They’re thrilled about the weather here._

_How are you settling in? Do you need anything? If you do, I’ll find a way to get it to you._

_I miss you. I love you.  
Jack _

_Dear Jack,  
I miss you so much already. I’d forgotten what it’s like to be without you. It is hard to sleep, isn’t it? It’s comforting to know we’re still looking at the same moon, the same sky. I think about you when I look at it. I think about you always. _

_Your days have been much busier than mine. What are the drills like? Please be careful, even if it’s practice._

_Things are fine here. My roommate is also a New Yorker, named Clara. She is certainly not what my mother would call a ‘well brought up girl’ and that makes me like her all the more. She’s an ardent suffragist, and she could probably run the whole country given the chance. We go out dancing sometimes, but it’s not the same._

_The two of us spend a lot of time with Frances, who works with me at the restaurant, and her roommate Helena. Frances is the only person I’ve ever met who goes through books faster than I do, and she remembers everything. She doesn’t ever need to write down orders. Helena is always rescuing animals - cats, birds, rabbits, even mice. There’s always something hidden in her room that we have to keep from Mrs. Porter._

_She still hates me, by the way. But she has two dear little girls, who I sometimes look after for extra money. I tell them all kinds of stories. You’ve even shown up in a few._

_I don’t need anything, except for you, of course. But I’ll have you back. It can’t be soon enough._

_I miss you. I love you. Please be safe.  
Your Rose _

_Dear Rose,  
I’m sending you some drawings back this time. No time to sit for portraits, but it’s more or less what some of the guys here look like. There’s no one near as pretty as you, but that’s the case for the whole world. _

_Tell me more about these stories. I’ve always wanted to be a cowboy. Or maybe a pirate._

_Your friends sound wonderful. One day I’ll meet them. Hope they won’t be disappointed!_

_I’ll write again tonight._

_I miss you. I love you. I’m safe.  
Your Jack_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it won't be all love letters from here on out, but writing them is fun so there will probably be more


	6. Chapter 6

_Autumn, 1917_

Jack watched the countryside pass in a blur, a blank sheet of paper on his lap. He’d intended to write a letter to Rose, but so far, the words wouldn’t come. He’d written her nearly every day for weeks while at boot camp and on the ship. But now it was different. Now he was here. 

Will Dalton was dozing next to him. Jack had bunked with Will during their training, and they’d taken to each other immediately. He was funny, with a quick sense of humor and an easy laugh. Though he’d spent his whole life in New York, Will reminded Jack of the friends he’d grown up with in Wisconsin, hearty and undaunted.

The train hit a bump and Will sputtered awake. “Where are we?” he asked, moving to rub the crick in his neck. 

“Don’t know,” Jack said. If he squinted, all he saw were smudges of color and light, like a painting up close. “France, maybe?” 

“You ever been here before?” 

“A couple years ago,” Jack nodded. _More than a couple._

“With your wife?” 

Jack looked at him. Will was a few years younger than him. He was always talking about his girlfriend, a pretty blonde named Eloise. He seemed fascinated by the idea of marriage, like he was working himself up for it. 

“No. It was before I met her.” Jack turned his eyes back to the window. “I got lost a lot before I met her.” 

“Well do me a favor and try not to get lost this time,” Will said. His wide brown eyes crinkled when he flashed an uneven grin. “I’m no good with a compass.” 

“Now you tell me,” Jack said, cracking a smile. He shifted, and one of Rose’s letters peeked from the pages of his sketchbook. Jack brushed his hand over it, thinking about the way her face must have looked while she was writing it. 

She seemed to always be surrounded by people, and knowing that brought him comfort. He hated the idea of Rose alone, worrying and imagining the worst. He knew she didn’t like being still, even when she was reading. When he thought of her, she was always moving. 

_Dear Jack,  
It’s raining here again today. It’s turned cool the last few days, but not cold yet. Frances and I just got home from work and she’s making me a cup of tea while I write this. I miss you, darling. I wish I could kiss you at the end of the day. I miss you all the time, but I miss you most at night. I told the girls about the week we spent camping outside of Rockford before that big storm blew through. Remember that? I’ve been telling them so many of our stories, but that one made them laugh. They want to meet you. I’m sure I don’t do you justice. There’s no way I possibly could. _

_Your days sound exhausting. I don’t know how you find the time to write to me, but I’m grateful that you do. I loved the drawings of Will and Peter. From his face, Will looks like he’d be funny. I hope he’s making you laugh. The world needs that sound._

_Keep drawing, all right?_

_I miss you. I love you. Please be safe.  
Your Rose _

“Dawson are you listening to me at all?” 

Will was blinking at him. His bony elbow nudged into Jack’s ribs. “Not really,” Jack admitted. 

“I thought as much,” Will said. His eyes looked down at Rose’s handwriting, some of it smudged from Jack’s constant unfolding and re-reading. He sometimes left her letters wrapped around the bar of lavender soap she’d left in his pack so the paper would smell like her. “You really miss her.” 

“I really do,” Jack said. He missed her the way he'd missed warmth that night in the water. 

“She probably misses you too,” Will offered. 

“Probably?” Jack grinned. 

“Well, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but you stink,” Will said, stretching his arms above his head. “And you snore like an engine.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Eloise sure is a lucky lady.” 

***

Clara was in their room when Rose walked through the door with her hair and clothes soaked with rain. Clara looked up from the essay she was writing and sucked her teeth. 

“You got caught in it,” she said. 

“How could you tell?” Rose asked. She kicked off her shoes and began pulling off her wet stockings. 

“Stand by the radiator,” Clara said, sitting up on her bed and tucking her legs beneath her. She was wearing a worn pair of corduroy pants that Rose recognized as her favorite. Clara often wore pants around the house, much to Mrs. Porter’s horror. She altered them all herself, using a battered sewing machine that had been a gift from one of her sisters. 

Clara was 23, a year older than Rose, but she looked like a teenager with her round face and short stature. She was small, standing barely five feet tall, but she was built solid. She wore her dark curly hair cut short like a boy’s, and parted to the side. Her brown eyes glinted with a confident spark that reminded Rose of Jack. 

It was early November, and the chill Rose remembered so well had begun to settle over the city. Rose slipped out of her wet dress and slid into a clean skirt and one of Jack’s old sweaters before she took Clara’s advice and perched in front of the radiator. She eyed her bag, still draped on the window seat, and felt her heart race again. 

“You got a letter, didn’t you?” Clara asked, her eyes sparkling with interest. 

“Yes,” Rose said, near breathless again. She sometimes read parts of Jack's letters aloud to her friends, but she liked to read them alone first. She always tore them open the second they were in her hands, her eyes scanning the first few sentences to make sure he was alright. Then she’d tuck the paper back in its envelope to savor later. 

The letters had arrived regularly at first, and Rose wrote back to him every day. She filled the pages with descriptions of her life in New York, about the books she was reading and the friends she was meeting and the things she was learning and the colors of the autumn leaves. He wrote to her about the heat and the training exercises that ran from before sunrise to late in the evenings. He described the zigzagging trenches that had been dug in the red dirt and the way he and everyone else had to crawl on their bellies for hours. He described his bunkmates and included portraits and sketches with each letter so she could see that he was still drawing. His handwriting was achingly familiar but messy, and she could tell that he was tired and writing by dim light. 

Rose convinced herself that it wasn’t so bad. She hated being separated from him, but they could do this, if they had to. He seemed like he was in good spirits, like he was taking on this new adventure with his usual enthusiasm. It was a strange new rhythm, but it was one she could still keep time by. 

Then she got the letter that had frozen her from the inside out, as if she were back in the water again. He was leaving. Shipping out. The reality of it had made Rose feel like the floor had dropped out from under her, and she’d cried all night until Clara climbed into bed with her and rubbed her back. She’d gotten another few letters all in one bunch, which must have been sent all together after his ship had docked. Then there had been nothing. Until today. 

“Well?” Clara asked. 

“I haven’t read it yet,” Rose said. She bit her lower lip. “He’s in France.” 

“France is a big place,” Clara said knowingly. She stood up. “Let me go make us some tea. I’ll steal a couple of cookies from the kitchen too, while you read.” 

“Thanks,” Rose said gratefully. Clara knew all about her routines, and always found a reason to leave her alone in their bedroom to read Jack’s letters. 

Rose waited until the door clicked shut behind her before she threw back the covers and climbed into bed. There, she slipped the thin sheet of paper from its envelope and began to read. 

_Dear Rose,  
Bonjour from France. I’m not supposed to tell you exactly where I am, but it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. We’re in the middle of nowhere, mostly waiting around. I have more time to think now, more time to draw and write to you. They’re still putting us through our exercises and drills, but it’s less structured than it was back in Charlotte. There are more people here and everyone talks about home like it’s the same place, even though we’re from all over. _

_I don’t know when I’ll be able to send this, but I hope it reaches you soon. There are so many vineyards here, or at least there used to be. Sometimes the air smells like your fingers did that summer in Napa._

_Don’t you worry about me, Rosie. I’m fine. It will be all right. You’ll see._

_I miss you. I love you. I’m safe.  
Your Jack_

_PS. Will says to tell you that my hair is growing back (I told him you were worried I’d be bald the next time you see me)._

Rose heard herself laugh at that last line, even as she felt the tears slipping down her cheeks. One landed on the paper and smeared his name. She traced a finger over it, thinking about omens. 

Rose wiped the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes as she sat up. There was something else, something she hadn’t been letting herself think about. But seeing his handwriting fresh like this again made it impossible to ignore. She stood up and crossed to the mirror in the corner. Lifting up the corner of the sweater, Rose peered at herself. 

She looked the same, she decided, even when she stood sideways. She slid a hand over her bare skin as she looked up at the calendar and began to count. 

There was a knock at the door and Rose smoothed down her clothes. “Come in!” 

The door opened slowly. Rose had to crane her neck before she saw seven-year-old Emmy Porter, standing with her ankles crossed primly. Her hand was clasped around her sister’s. 

“Miss Rose?” Emmy asked timidly. 

“Hello girls,” Rose said. She stood up and walked toward the door. 

“We need to know what happens next!” Caroline burst out. Though she was two years younger, Caroline was much more assertive than her sister. Rose smiled. Caroline reminded her of herself at that age. She took a small step forward. “In the story.” 

“Does your mother know where you are?” Rose asked cautiously. 

“Oh, yes,” Caroline said. 

“She told us not to bother you if you were busy,” Emmy said. “Are you very busy?”

“Not all.” Rose opened the door wider. “You’re just in time.” She herded the girls into her bed and tucked them under the covers and out of the chill. “Now, where were we?” 

“The princess and the handsome prince had just been captured!” Caroline squealed, burrowing close to her sister. 

“Ah, that’s right,” Rose grinned, eyeing Jack’s letter on the nightstand. 

“This story sounds like it needs cookies,” Clara said, leaning against the doorframe. She handed a steaming mug to Rose and a handkerchief full of cinnamon cookies to the children before she slid onto the window seat across the room. Rose had a fleeting memory of her mother scolding her about crumbs in her bed. 

“So, the handsome prince had been captured by the king’s evil henchman,” she began, turning back to the wide eyes peeking out from the blankets. “The king wanted to hide the prince somewhere no one would ever find him. He needed a dark and secret place where no one would think to look. So, he decided to lock the prince away in a tower under the sea.” 

“Oh, no,” Emmy whispered. 

“The princess thought all was lost,” Rose said. “She thought she was trapped forever and that she’d never see the prince again. But then she remembered something.” 

“What?” 

“She was magic,” Rose said, dropping her voice. “She had fire burning inside of her. The prince had told her so but she didn’t believe him. Not until she felt it flare to life herself.” 

“Did it hurt?” Emmy asked. “The fire?” 

“Not at all,” Rose said. “It kept her warm. And it helped her escape. She ran away from the king, and he couldn’t stop her because of the magic fire. She was too fast and too bright. And then, once she had gotten away, she went to rescue the prince.” 

“How very progressive,” Clara said from behind her. She raised her mug.

Rose raised an eyebrow before taking a sip of her tea. She felt the liquid warm its way through her, all the way down to her belly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the timing doesn't get confusing - she is about a month ahead of him for now.

_“Jack, wait!”_

_“Come on, you can trust me.” She stopped moving as her grip on his hands tightened. He knew she could hear the rushing water now. “Five more steps and then you can look.”_

_He could feel her counting as he guided her over the last few smooth rocks. Then they came to a stop. The sounds were louder now, and he wondered if she could feel it on her skin._

_“Alright,” he said. “Open your eyes.”_

_Rose was quiet, but her smile shone in her eyes. Jack let go of her hands as he turned to stand beside her, wanting to see exactly what she did._

_They stood beneath a canopy of trees in the light of the setting sun. The sky overhead was awash in purples and pinks and oranges, and its light filtered down into the pool at their feet. Ahead of them, a thick stream of water trickled down from the rocks above. Tiny rainbows appeared in the waterfall’s mist, surrounding them with color and making the water seem to glow._

_“It’s beautiful,” Rose said softly._

_Jack reached into his pocket and presented her with a bar of soap. It wasn’t the lavender kind she liked, but it would do. She stared at it in his open palm before her eyes traced a path back to his face._

_“You said you wanted a bath.”_

_“_ Here _?” Rose began to blush. It crept over her cheeks like the sunrise. She knew what she sounded like, just as incredulous as she had that first afternoon on the ship’s deck._

_“Well, that’s how we do it out here,” Jack said. He could feel himself blushing too. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. “If you don’t want to, we can try and find a hotel. We might have enough if we - ”_

_“No,” she said, already bending down to unlace her shoes. She looked up at him, peeking almost shyly through a curtain of hair. “I trust you.”_

_“You can go first,” he said, still blushing. “I’ll just wait over there.”_

_“You’re not coming in with me?” she asked, beginning to unbutton her dress. A flash of alabaster skin beneath her collarbone made his heart race. Jack didn’t know why_ he _suddenly felt so shy._

_“I will if you want me to,” he said._

_“Of course I do,” she said. She grinned. “I’m not going in there alone.”_

_They stripped down in silence, their backs to each other. Even though they’d been with each other so many times by then - even though they were married - this somehow felt intimate in a new way._

_Jack could tell Rose was still apprehensive, so he waded into the hot spring first and dove beneath the warm water. She was watching him as he surfaced, smiling as he shook the hair out of his eyes and motioned for her to join him. Looking at her, standing in the dwindling light of the day with her brilliant red hair tumbling over her nakedness, Rose reminded Jack of a painting or a sculpture of a mythological goddess. Jack yearned to draw her then, just like that. He committed the sight of her to memory so he could try to recreate it later, but he knew he’d never be able produce something so absolutely, achingly perfect._

_“Water’s just fine,” he said, floating on his back._

_Rose took a step and smiled. “It’s warm!”_

_Jack watched her splash toward him, a tiny moan of pleasure escaping her lips as she glided through the water. He reached for the soap and began to wash her hair._

“Dawson!”

Jack looked up and snapped out of the memory. Captain Smith stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the early morning light. Jack stood. 

“We’re moving,” Smith said. He didn’t need to say where and Jack gave a sharp nod to show that he understood. “Get any mail you need to in.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

“And round up Dalton, would you?” 

“I will, Sir.” 

Smith nodded and then he was gone. Jack stood still for a moment, holding his breath. Then he forced himself into motion and began methodically tucking things into his pack. He’d known this was coming; he’d seen other units moving out over the past few days and had watched other men march away as they tried not to look back. 

He had tried to get used to the idea of going to the Front, but he’d been trying to do that since the letter had appeared in the mailbox back in July. He’d been trying to convince himself that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. The camp in North Carolina hadn’t been so bad, and neither had this brief stay in the French countryside. Jack thought of that old saying about frogs being boiled alive. 

Since their arrival, he and the others had been staying in a mostly abandoned village. At first, Jack had preferred to sleep in a tent under the stars rather than move into one of the empty houses that surrounded him. Waking up without Rose was still disorienting, especially with sunlight filtering through canvas. 

In the beginning, when they’d first set out together, Jack had been nervous about her having to sleep on the hard ground when they couldn’t afford a room for the night. She’d been used to the softest beds and the finest linens, a far cry from their ratty blanket and the pile of Jack’s clothes that he’d spread over the floor of their tent for her. But to his surprise and maybe hers too, Rose had loved camping from the very first night. She’d been so transfixed by the sounds of the woods, the steady warmth of the cooking fire, and the way the stars seemed endless in the velvet sky, a secret gift just for them. She’d even learned that she liked lake baths, even when they weren’t as scenic or as warm as her first one. 

At night they’d curled close, Jack’s arms around her and her head in the space just above his heart. She was always still there when he woke up and it made him feel lucky all over again. Now when he woke up there was just empty space. 

When it got cold at the end of October, Jack had relented and moved into the first floor of one of the abandoned houses with Will. They slept on the floor in what had been someone’s living room. Jack didn’t like to look around like some of the others. He didn’t want to know too much about whoever had lived there before. 

Nighttime made them all nervous. The dark brought too many shadows, and when it got quiet they could hear the sounds of the explosions from a few miles away. Will in particular liked to talk at night, and Jack didn’t mind. It was nice to have the company, and good to have the distraction. They made plans and agreements to stick together, to watch each other’s backs. Jack knew it made Will feel safer and he pretended it made him feel that way too. Deep down he knew he’d never feel safe until Rose was back in his arms. 

Jack’s hand closed around the bar of lavender soap. It was wrapped in a handkerchief on top of a pile of Rose’s letters. He dreaded the day it lost its scent, the day it stopped smelling like her. He held it to his nose before he threw it in his pack with everything else and then reached for a piece of paper. 

His hand was shaking as he gripped the pencil and he concentrated on steadying it. He didn’t want her to know that he was afraid. He didn’t even like to admit it to himself. But the truth was, he hadn’t been this afraid since - 

_No_. There was always a way out, and he’d even found a way out of _that_. He and Rose both. 

He tried to think about other things to crowd out the fear. If there was no room for it, then he wouldn’t be able to feel it. He had made promises, and promises were meant to be kept. Jack looked down and began to write.

***

_Dear Rose,  
It’s last call for mail, so this will have to be short. We’re moving again. I don’t know exactly where we’re going, but we’re likely to stay there for a while. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again. I’m sorry that I don’t seem to know much of anything. I know that I love you. I know you know that too. _

_Please don’t worry. It sounds worse than it is. We might not even see too much. I’ll write again when I can._

_I miss you. I love you. I’m safe.  
Your Jack _

Rose knew she shouldn’t read it again. It always made her cry when she did, and she had to keep moving. But she still held Jack’s last letter pressed against her heart as the December chill rattled the window panes. 

She wasn’t sure when he’d written it, but she’d received it almost three weeks ago, just before Thanksgiving. His handwriting was rushed. Nervous. Rose knew what he wasn’t saying, that he was going to the Front. 

“You’ll miss breakfast if you don’t get up,” Frances said, her face filling the doorframe. “Rose?” 

“I’m coming,” she said. Her voice sounded flat. There was an ache in her throat and in her chest. She knew Clara had sent Frances upstairs to check on her and pull her out of bed if necessary. 

“He’s alright,” Frances said, pushing open the door and entering the room. “If he wasn’t, you would have gotten one of those telegrams.” 

“I know,” Rose said. She shivered, but it loosened the knot in her chest slightly. She knew about the telegrams that came from the War Department when someone had been injured or worse, but Frances was right. He was Jack, and there was nothing Jack couldn’t do. Rose just needed to be reminded. She pulled back the covers and heard herself gasp. 

“I should have warned you,” Frances said apologetically. “It’s freezing today.” 

Rose stood up and wrapped her arms around herself. She went to the closet and began pulling out layers of wool and flannel to wear, watching the way the naked trees bent with the wind outside. Frances sat on Clara’s empty bed and waited for Rose to dress and primp for the day. Rose didn’t feel much like it, but her tips were always higher when she put more effort into her appearance. She reached for a pin and began brushing out her hair. 

When Rose was satisfied, she and Frances let themselves into the hall and walked toward the staircase. Rose could already hear Clara, her voice carrying from the dining room. 

“The sermon started early today,” Rose said, starting down the stairs. 

“There’s a meeting tonight,” Frances said. “She’s recruiting.” 

Rose felt herself grin. Clara was neck-deep in the National Woman’s Party. Rose went to the meetings with Frances and Helena in between her shifts at the restaurant and minding the Porter children and stolen hours at the library. She was grateful for them. It gave her something to pour herself into. Something to fight for. Something to share with her new, brilliant friends. 

They passed Mrs. Porter at the bottom of the stairs, and she gave them a stiff nod before she turned toward the office. 

“Friendly today,” Frances whispered as Rose tried to cover her smile. “She must be in a good mood.” 

Mrs. Porter was still cold to Rose, especially when her husband was present. The Porters lived in a suite of rooms on the building’s top floor, but the rest of the hotel was a pleasant cross between a boarding house and what Rose assumed a college dormitory would be like. 

Mr. Porter was out of the house most days on other business, while Mrs. Porter served as a kind of house mother. Rose usually spent a few evenings a week looking after their children while Mrs. Porter supervised the shopping or the cooking. The two little girls made Rose think about children of her own, and that only made her ache for Jack even more. 

Rose hadn’t told anyone, but she dreamed about those children sometimes. She knew that’s who they were by the look of their faces, with their rearranged combinations of familiar features. Sometimes they had Jack’s eyes surrounded by wild red hair, or sometimes she recognized her own mouth turning up with his uneven, mischievous smile. 

Her mother had once told Rose that she’d dreamed of her before she knew Rose existed. It was the only time Ruth had discussed such things with her daughter, one night after she’d had too much champagne at a party. _A woman always knows,_ she’d said. _One day you’ll know, too._

Rose didn’t know what she knew, exactly, but she hadn’t bled since she’d been at The Porter. The last time had been in California, a few days before they left their little house for the train. At first, she hadn’t worried. This had happened before, ever since she was a girl, and it always returned after skipping a month or two. But when November ended without so much as a cramp, Rose knew _something_ was different this time. 

She hadn’t said anything to anyone, not even Jack. They’d never kept secrets from each other, and it felt strange to be keeping this one now. She and Jack had always been careful, even during that first feverish time. They’d talked about trying in earnest, but then the letter had arrived and they both agreed it wasn’t the right time. Still, she knew he’d be happy about even the possibility of it. 

But it would be another thing to weigh on him, another worry for him to carry when he was already carrying so many. There was so much space between them, so much she knew he was sparing her from. She could spare him this, at least for now. At least until she was sure. 

She dropped into a seat at her usual table, between Helena and Frances and across from Clara. The smell of food turned her stomach, as it did most mornings lately, but there was tea waiting for her. 

“There you are,” Clara said in between bites of oatmeal. “I thought I was going to have to drag you down here myself.” 

“I’m glad you sent Frances,” Rose said. “She’s much gentler than you are.” 

Clara smiled affectionately at Frances before she went back to her breakfast. This morning, Clara wore a necktie over her stiff white blouse. She worked at a bookstore near the university and most of the time, she looked like a cross between a student and a revolutionary. 

“That’s not difficult,” Helena said mildly, finishing her coffee. “A sledgehammer is gentler than Clara.” 

“You should hear yourself snore,” Clara said. She glared at Helena, who smiled serenely as she pulled out a silver compact. 

Helena was a goddess of a woman. Long limbed and effortlessly beautiful with immaculate porcelain skin, bobbed cornsilk hair, and eyes like glittering emeralds. She worked as a Macy’s shopgirl and sold more makeup than all the other salesgirls combined. Women bought it to look like her, and men bought it for their wives or simply because she told them to. 

“Rose, darling, you look spectacular,” Helena said. “What are you wearing on your cheeks?” 

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Rose said, raising a hand to her cheek. Her skin was warm. “I think I’m coming down with Emmy’s cold. Poor thing was in bed for two days last week.” 

“Maybe _you_ should stay in bed today,” Frances said, reaching a hand toward Rose’s forehead. 

Clara shot her a glare that she thought Rose missed. Rose knew what she was thinking, and she agreed. It was better for her to stay busy. 

“I’m alright,” she said. “Besides, I need the money.”

“Well, make sure you bundle up,” Frances said in her mothering tone. “It looks like it’s about to snow.” 

Rose hadn’t seen snow in years. She and Jack had always fled from it, chasing warmth whenever winter came. 

“Here,” Frances added, unwinding a thick scarf from her own neck. “I’m almost finished with another, so why don’t you take this one?” 

Rose accepted the scarf and draped it around her neck. Frances had been teaching her to knit, but it was slow going. Still, Rose was happy to have something to occupy her hands when it was too dark to read and she was too awake to sleep. They mailed most of what they made to Jack.

Rose and Frances walked to work together after tea and toast. Christmas was coming, and there was an air of forced cheer in the city. Though the war had been on for years, it felt closer now. Still, homemade wreaths appeared on shop doors and the smells of woodsmoke and roasting chestnuts wafted out from open windows. The smell always reminded Rose of childhood birthdays. 

Her birthday was in two days, but she hadn’t been letting herself think about that. Ruth never had much patience for indulging in such things, but the maids and cooks around the house would always bring her treats and little presents. She’d had a cotillion, of course, but that had been a stiff and formal affair, more for her parents’ friends and their wealthy sons than for her. But Jack had always managed to make the day special for her, no matter how little money they had when it came around. Without him, Rose thought there wouldn’t be much point in celebrating much of anything.

She squinted as she tried to pay attention to what Frances was saying. The harsh grey light bleached everything around them and the air was static with cold. Rose felt strangely warm. She was sweating through her winter coat. 

The restaurant was already crowded when they arrived, mostly full of older men wanting breakfast before going to work. Rose shuffled between the tables, her limbs feeling heavy and tired. There was a man at the counter reading the newspaper and Rose squinted at the headline as she poured his coffee. 

_Hundreds under fire as casualties mount_

Coffee dribbled onto the counter and Rose stammered an apology. Whenever she thought about him there, in the middle of it, she couldn’t breathe. 

“Rose, you don’t look so good,” Frances said after the lunch rush had died down. Snow was falling steadily outside, covering the world with white. 

“I don’t feel so good,” Rose said, touching a hand to her head. It felt like fire burning within, like the story she’d told the children. 

“Why don’t you go home?” It wasn’t really a question, and the freckles on Frances’ nose danced when she frowned. “I’ll split the tip money.” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“Sure it is,” Frances argued. “The day’s mostly over. No one’ll be in for dinner with weather like this. Benson’s likely to close up early.” 

Rose considered this. 

“Go on. Take a hot bath and I’ll come check on you when I get home.” 

Rose nodded. She needed to sleep. Wearily, she dressed and slipped back out into the cold.


	8. Chapter 8

_Dear Jack,  
I hope this gets to you. It’s strange to not know where you are. I’ve been following the news as closely as I can, even when it scares me. Are you warm enough where you are? I wish I was there to wrap my arms around you. Pretend I am. _

_I know it must be frightening there, but I hope that whenever you read this, it puts a smile on your face. I miss that smile. I miss your hands. I miss everything about you._

_Jack, I’m so proud of you and I think about you every second. I can’t wait until you’re back home with me. But until then, just remember how much I love you. More with each passing moment and every breath I take. Please, please come back to me._

_I miss you. I love you. Please be safe.  
Your Rose _

Jack tucked the paper into his coat pocket. It was already wet, the ink beginning to run. He took out the torn photograph and traced his dirty fingertips over Rose’s face. He missed her. He didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much. It was still hard to sleep without her. But it was even harder to be awake without her. 

Jack slipped the photograph back into his pocket and his fingers brushed over her letter again. He could feel her worry seeping through the page. He wished he could write her again. He wished he could kiss her. But both of those things would have to wait. 

He was crouched in the mud, every inch of him wet and cold. It was the kind of cold that seeped beneath his skin and clung there. The kind that made his bones hurt. But he’d been colder. He knew it could be worse. 

It had been raining for five straight days, though it felt like longer. His unit had been alternating between the front line trenches and the reserve trenches for more than three weeks, and Jack still hadn’t gotten used to the noise. Sometimes he could block it out - the explosions, the screams, the wet _thunk_ of bodies falling where they stood - but only when he was too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

Rest days were spent farther back behind the line. He spent them writing letters he wasn’t sure would get delivered, playing cards, making conversation with men filled with just as much nervous energy as he was, and doing the work needed to maintain the camp. Sometimes he was grateful for the physical labor - there was always something that needed fixing or gear that needed to be hauled. Every once in a while, when he was patching a leak or loading up heavy bags of food, he could almost pretend it was another new job in another new town that he’d be leaving soon. But other jobs just made the reality of it worse. The dead needed to be buried, the injured needed to be carried. The screaming never really stopped.

Will dropped into the space next to him. He held out a small bowl full of weak soup, left over from their Thanksgiving dinner the night before. Jack stared at it and his stomach roiled. He should have been hungry, but it was difficult to eat surrounded by the stench of rot and death. 

“Come on, Dawson, I’m not gonna feed it to you,” Will said. 

“Thanks,” Jack said, accepting a bowl. The soup didn’t taste like anything. Maybe he should have been grateful for that. 

“Tough day,” Will said quietly. They were back on the front line, and would be for another three days. “The 139th lost 13.” 

Jack nodded. “The 64th lost 21 last night.” 

Will let out a low whistle, but otherwise sipped his soup in silence. 

“You think it’ll ever stop raining?” Will asked finally. 

Jack looked up toward the sky. Sometimes he could see stars above him, but not tonight. “Anyone’s guess.” 

“They must want us to swim home.” 

Jack managed a laugh, just to make sure he still could. “We might get there faster at this rate.” 

“I gotta say, I’m glad you’re here, Jack,” Will said. 

“Yeah? I’m not.” 

“That’s fair,” Will said. He slipped off his coat, balling it behind his head before he leaned back and closed his eyes. “But no one else laughs at my jokes anymore.” 

“That’s because they’re not funny,” Jack said. He elbowed Will lightly. “But they’ve never been funny.” 

He heard Will snicker before he went quiet again. Jack wondered if the younger man had fallen asleep when Will suddenly turned toward him again. There were deep circles under his frightened eyes.

“Do you think we’ll make it out of here?” he asked. 

Jack nodded automatically. “Yes,” he said. 

“I don’t,” Will said. Rain plastered his thick curly hair to his head. Jack suddenly thought of Rose, how her wet, unruly curls looked when she got caught in a rainstorm or after a bath. He tried to hold onto the image. 

“You can’t think about it like that,” Jack said. “You can’t think too far ahead. You just have to think about the next thing. The next minute, the next step. The next bowl of shitty soup.” 

“It is shitty, isn’t it?” Will managed a smile again. “Is that what you do?” 

“It’s what I try to do,” Jack said. “My pops used to say that whatever’s going to happen is going to happen anyway, so there’s no use worrying about it.” 

“Do you believe that?” 

“Sometimes,” Jack said. “I know it’s important to make every second count. To do the best you can with the cards you’re dealt.” 

“You don’t look around at this mess and wonder what’s the point of it all?” 

“Sure I do,” Jack said. His boot squelched down as he shifted in the mud and ankle-deep water. “It’s impossible not to. But we keep going to get to the other side. I gotta get back to Rose and you gotta get back to Eloise and we’ll figure the rest out with them. One step at a time.” 

Will raised his nearly empty bowl. “I’ll drink to that.” 

Jack leaned his head back against the wall of the trench. He looked at Will, and then the shelling began.

***

Rose trudged home with the strong white snowlight burning her eyes. She felt awful. Her body ached and her head might as well have been full of cotton when she climbed the steps to the front door. She reached for the doorknob and froze.

Her name was written across the envelope in his familiar scrawl. The sight of it jolted her as though she were electrified. Rose fumbled with her gloves and tore at the paper, dropping her bag in the entryway. 

_Dear Rose,  
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. It’s almost Thanksgiving here, but the mail’s been slow. Is it winter where you are yet? I hope you’re warm. I wish I was there to keep you warm. _

_Speaking of, thank you for the gloves and the sweaters. It’s not the same as having your arms around me, but they’re keeping me warm while I wait._

_It’s really not so bad here. I don’t want to stay a second longer than I have to, but it’s not as bad as you’re imagining. No drawings again, but only because it’s been raining too much. Everything is wet, all the time, and all I’m doing is ruining paper (can you tell?). Don’t think I’ve forgotten your birthday, though. You might have to wait a little longer for a real present this year, but I’ll make it up to you._

_There’s talk of this being over by Christmas. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Even if it’s not, I say we celebrate anyway, the minute I get back. We can go to the Florida Keys and swim and lay in the sun. It’ll be like last year, you and me drinking lemonade and eating strawberries on the beach._

_I’m coming back to you. Keep writing, all right?_

_I miss you. I love you. I’m safe.  
Your Jack _

Rose was weeping, breathlessly and desperately. She leaned against the wall as her knees buckled with relief. 

Tears mixed with the snowflakes melting on her cheeks and she felt foolish but she couldn’t stop. After weeks of silence and frightening headlines and cold, Rose felt as though she held sunlight in her hands. 

_I’m coming back to you._ She held it close all the way up to her room. Then, with the door closed, she went to her dresser where she kept his letters and a collection of his drawings and the photograph with the fault line down the middle. She wrote him another letter, careful not to let her tears drop onto the paper as she tried to match his optimism. 

She paused before she finished. She didn’t want to give him something else to worry about. But she wanted him to know what she did, that maybe it wouldn’t just be her that he was coming back to. She wrote quickly about her suspicions, about her dreams. She let herself feel excitement instead of fear and finished with a plea: _come home to us._

Then she crawled into bed with his picture clutched to her chest and the lock of his hair wound around her finger.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far! Just a small warning - this is the chapter that prompted me to put the violence flag on the story. It’s less graphic than I originally thought it might be, but it’s a rough one. Don’t lose hope yet, though.

Bullets exploded in the mud at his feet as Jack ran. He ducked his head low and zigzagged through the cold rain. The screaming had started again. It was everywhere, all around him as it bounced off the crumbling dirt walls. He could hear Will’s heavy footfalls behind him, splashing through the puddles beneath them. 

They had tried to defend themselves against the assault, but then the order had come and they’d started to run. The night closed in as the ground shook with artillery fire. Jack tried to empty his mind as he ran, but it was impossible to forget all the promises he’d made. He would outrun this. He had to. 

There was a cross between a scream and a grunt behind him, and then something heavy splashed to the ground. Jack stopped, cold fear thudding in his chest. 

“Dalton, come on,” he yelled, extending a hand down to him. “We’ve got to keep moving!”

“I’m hit,” was all he said, sounding more surprised than anything else. 

“I know, but we have to move. One step at a time, remember?” Without waiting for a response, Jack heaved Will to his feet. 

Blood was pouring from a wound in Will’s thigh. Jack yanked the scarf from around his neck and tied it as tight as he could, mumbling an apology when Will screamed at the pressure. Then they were running again, slower than before but fast enough to stay alive. Jack flew around another corner, and then the world was lit with fire and heat. 

He was lifted off his feet and blown backwards, slamming into the wall so hard he couldn’t breathe. Jack fell face first into the putrid water below him. He froze for a few seconds before he got his bearings again, gasping as he sputtered toward the light. His ears were ringing and his eyes were nearly stuck shut with mud. Jack rubbed at them and was half-surprised when his fingers came away stained with red. Warm blood was still trickling down the side of his face when he realized that he was alone. 

“Dalton!” he called, looking over his shoulder. 

There was another explosion and Jack was running again, back the way he’d come, propelled by the need to get away from the heat. But it was everywhere. He thought of Rose, the dimple in her cheek when she smiled and her halo of red curls. He needed to get out of this. He’d _told_ her he would get out of this. 

There was moaning in the darkness beside him. Will lay in a crumpled heap, all of his exposed skin covered with thick, red blood. The sky above ignited again and Jack saw that there were bodies around them. They were people he knew, people he’d played cards with and shared Thanksgiving dinner with. Most were still by now. 

“Dalton?” Jack asked, not recognizing his own voice. He knelt beside his friend, pressing a dirt-caked hand to his forehead. His eyes opened sluggishly. “Will!” 

Jack stripped off his coat and wrapped it around Will as best he could before he lifted him over his shoulder. Will was limp, his blood pooling in the mud behind them. Jack gritted his teeth as he began to move forward again, struggling against the exhaustion and the fear and the extra weight.

There was the sound of planes overhead. Reflexively, he looked up. The cloud cover made them hard to see, and for a moment, Jack thought that the clouds would hide him too. But then the planes were swooping low. Too low, Jack knew. 

The ground shook again and then the air began to fill with thick smoke. It surrounded him with the sharp smell of overripe garlic and rotten eggs. Jack began to sweat. His eyes burned and the world around him spun. Jack reached back to tuck his coat over Will’s face before he pulled a pair of knitted gloves and a handkerchief out of his pocket. It was the one Rose had used to hide her bar of soap, and for a fleeting second, Jack thought he caught the faint scent of lavender on the fabric as he pressed it over his mouth and nose. 

The gas made his skin prickle and burn as he wobbled on his feet. Each breath was fire, like shards of glass in his throat. It was as though everything had stopped working at once; his nose, his lungs, his legs, his eyes had all forgotten how to function. He heard himself choke. Then he heard Will crash down to the ground again as Jack fell to his knees.

He tried to crawl, urging himself forward in darkness. He thought of Rose again and he crawled toward her. His body felt impossibly heavy, like he was encased in wet cement. He felt like he had almost six years earlier, powerless and helpless in the middle of the North Atlantic. He tried to convince himself that the pain had been worse then. If he’d survived that, he could survive this, too. But the smoke kept coming, flooding him and dragging him under. 

Something ripped into his shoulder, new pain blossoming with bright, sharp heat. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, too tired and too weak to move anymore. He rolled slowly, pressing his face into the mud. It filled his nose but it cooled the burning. He could stay here. He could stay until it was over. 

The handkerchief that had once smelled so sweet fluttered beside him in the breeze and Jack wound his fingers through it as he began to fall asleep. 

_I miss you_ , he thought. _I love you. I’m sorry._

***

Rose woke to whispers in the darkness. There were callused fingers moving gently across her forehead.

“Jack?” she whispered groggily. 

“No, honey,” Clara said. “It’s just me and Hellie. You’ve got a fever.” 

Rose felt thick, like she was made of molasses. She reached out, her fingers brushing against Clara’s waist. A moment later, there was a cool glass in her hand. Clara guided her hand back up to her lips and Rose drank. The water soothed the fire in her throat. 

“I’m going to get a doctor,” Helena said from somewhere else in the room. Her voice sounded far away. 

“Don’t,” Rose said, moving to sit up. Her head throbbed. “I’m alright. It’s just a cold, honestly.” 

“Rose, don’t argue,” Clara said. 

“Look who’s talking,” Rose said, leaning back against the headboard. “A doctor will cost more than rent, and I’m already going to have to take tomorrow off.” 

She thought of the stack of bills in the top drawer of her dresser, beside Jack’s old pilly sweater. She wouldn’t spend it. Not until he got back. 

“Rose - ”

“Please,” she said. “Give it at least a day or two before you declare me an invalid.” 

Neither of them laughed. It was Helena who said it. “Rose, you're pregnant. Aren't you?” 

Rose didn’t breathe for a second or two as she felt them both looking at her. The silence pounded in her ears. Her body may have felt different, but it didn’t look all that different, especially when it was bundled under all her winter layers. “How did you know?” she asked softly. 

“You stopped eating breakfast,” Helena said, her voice drifting closer. “We’ve seen you change your clothes. I have six little sisters and my mother used to take me along to help our neighbors. It’s…” 

“No one else knows,” Clara said reassuringly. Then her voice dropped. “Did _you_ know?” 

“I suspected,” Rose admitted. “I’ve missed my cycle before. But never this many in a row. I want them. Jack does too. But now…” Rose forced herself to swallow the waver in her voice. “He’s so far away. I wanted to be sure before I said anything. To anyone.”

“He’d want you to see a doctor,” Helena said. “If you’re sick - ”

“I’m not,” Rose said. “It’s a cold.” 

“Still.” 

“I wrote to him about it today,” Rose said, the words hissing out of her like steam through a burst pipe. “I don’t want anyone else to know until he does. I know it seems silly, but I want it to just be ours for a little while. At least until he writes back.” 

She thought she heard them conferring with each other and finally Clara sighed. “If you’re not better by the weekend or if you get any worse, even so much as an extra sniffle, I’m getting a doctor and I don’t care what you say.” 

“Thank you,” Rose sighed, settling back onto her pillow. “Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a fantastic nurse?”

“No,” Clara said. She held out a teaspoon of foul-smelling liquid. “Now take this.” 

Rose slept through the rest of the night and most of the next day. Clara brought her chicken soup and Frances left half her tip money on the nightstand. Helena sat on the window seat and read _Northanger Abbey_ aloud, a small black cat purring beside her. 

Rose dreamed of Jack. She kept losing sight of him as he ducked around corners, too quick for her to follow. Once she reached out and gripped his hand, only for him to disappear. Rose woke with her fingers twisted in the bedsheets. 

By the third day, Rose was feeling better. The room was empty when she slid out of bed and began to dress. The sun had already set but she could smell dinner being prepared in the kitchen and her stomach rumbled with hunger. There was a knock at the door and then Clara poked her head inside. 

“You look like you’re feeling better,” she said. 

“I am,” Rose said cheerfully. She stood still while Clara reached up a hand to feel her forehead. Rose watched as Clara gave a satisfied nod and then her face broke into a Cheshire cat smile. “What is it?” 

Clara looked behind her to the half-open door before she glanced back at Rose. “Happy birthday.” 

“What?” Rose asked. She hadn’t told anyone. There were footsteps behind her, and for a fraction of a second, Rose almost expected to see Jack there. Instead it was Frances and Helena, holding a cake between them. From the smell, Rose knew it was her favorite: sponge cake filled with strawberry jam. She blinked in surprise. “How did you know?” 

“Jack wrote to us,” Frances said. Her voice was higher than usual. “Weeks ago. He swore us to secrecy. He wanted to surprise you.” 

Rose thought she might cry. She thought of the past five birthdays, each of them spent beside him. Even if they were traveling or struggling, Jack made sure it never passed unacknowledged. Now, even from a world away, he wouldn't let it be ignored. She could picture him, grinning in front of her as he held a lit candle and told her to make a wish. She knew what she’d wish for now. 

“Are you angry we didn’t tell you?” Helena asked, trying to read her expression. 

Rose shook her head. “No.” She felt herself smile. “He’s very persuasive, isn’t he?” 

“He said we should take you out dancing,” Clara nodded. 

“He said you should trust him,” Frances added. 

Rose laughed, but she agreed. The four of them stayed out too late and mostly danced with each other. There seemed to be a disproportionate amount of women in the city now, with so many men being shipped to Europe. But Rose didn’t mind. There were no other men she’d want to dance with anyway. 

They walked home with linked arms, the four of them stretching out in a line across the road. Rose lifted her face to the sky. The moon was a tiny sliver above her, and she wondered if Jack was looking at it too. _Thank you_ , she thought, closing her eyes against the night's chill. She took a deep breath for the first time in days. Between Jack’s letter, his birthday surprise, and having friends to share her secret, it felt like a weight had been lifted. 

The lights were dim when they got back to The Porter. Clara was giggling about something and Helena shushed her, clapping a hand over her mouth. Rose was just slipping out of her coat when the voice behind her made her jump. 

“Mrs. Dawson.” 

“Uh oh,” Clara said, but she stopped laughing when she saw the look on Mrs. Porter’s face. 

“Rose,” Mrs. Porter said. Her face was even tighter than usual. “Come with me, please.” 

“What?” Rose asked, following Mrs. Porter into the office. Mrs. Porter paused in front of the desk and then turned. Her face seemed to crack and Rose felt her heart drop into her stomach. The last person to look at her like that had been Thomas Andrews. It took a moment to find her voice again. “What is it?” 

Mrs. Porter slowly picked up an envelope off the desk, its open flap curling away from her. The fact that it was already open barely registered as the air in front of Rose began to swim. 

“Something came for you,” Mrs. Porter said. Her fingers danced nervously over the envelope’s edges until finally, she held it out. Rose didn’t want it. She thought about turning and running back out into the night, back to where everything had felt safe and hopeful. But she didn’t, and then Mrs. Porter was speaking again. “A telegram. I...I’m very sorry.” 

Rose didn’t hear anything else as she clawed at the envelope. How could this be? He had felt so close all night. She’d just gotten his last letter. She wanted to hold onto it as proof: _I’m safe._

Her name was printed on the front in neat type, the formal _Mrs. J. Dawson_ stark against the crisp white paper. She let it fall as she unfolded the paper inside. The words crowded together and then blurred. She could hear herself screaming as the paper fell to the floor, where the black bold letters stared up at her. 

_It is my painful duty to inform you...Jack Dawson...killed in action...November 30, 1917._


	10. Chapter 10

_Winter, 1917_

Someone had given her something to make her sleep. Rose was grateful. She slipped into murky dreams and then into welcome blackness. 

In her dreams, she was back in the cold water, reaching for Jack as he was pulled away from her. She was floating alone in the frozen sea. She was without him. Always without him. 

She only cried when she was awake. For days she sobbed until her pillowcase was soggy and soaked through. She thought of him ceaselessly. She thought of nights lying outside under the stars and of dancing pressed close together. She thought of his face and his hands, so confident and sure. She wondered about what it had been like at the end. Had he been afraid? She had seldom seen fear on his face. Had he hurt? Had he thought of her or the child he’d never know? 

Rose knew he couldn’t have. He’d never gotten her letter; he was already gone by the time she wrote it. Why hadn’t she told him sooner? Now nothing would be theirs ever again. The thought of it made her want to sink down to the floor and never get up. 

Rose wasn’t sure when it was that she did get up again. She couldn’t be sure how much time had passed or if she was even still the same person. Somehow, probably because of Frances, she still had her job. She went to the restaurant and then she crawled back into bed and waited for daylight to come again. Sometimes someone would come to her room with a tray and coax her into eating. Sometimes she was aware of steam on her face and then found that she was in the bathtub with one of the girls washing her back with a warm rag. They read to her, endlessly and steadily, until, somehow, she began to come back to herself. 

But the world had lost its color and so had Rose. She knew she’d promised him once that she could survive this, but it felt so far away and she couldn’t remember how. She drifted around her old life like a ghost, barely saying a word, barely there at all. 

And then, one night, she saw herself clearly in the bathroom mirror. There was an unmistakable swelling in her belly. Clara had let some of her dresses out already, and it was easy enough to conceal when she was dressed for the day. But in her nightclothes, Rose could see that she _was_ changing. And she knew she needed to exist for more than just herself. 

It was close to midnight when Rose made her way down to the kitchen, hungry for the first time in weeks. Since the telegram, she’d been eating only out of necessity. Mrs. Porter allowed her to eat in her room most days, believing it was grief alone that made her want to keep herself hidden. She ate what her friends put in front of her, barely tasting any of it. They had all been asleep in her room when she climbed out of bed: Clara and Frances curled together on Clara’s bed, and Helena in the window seat, her long legs draped over one side. 

She dressed carefully and crept into the quiet hallway. Two neat rows of closed doors greeted her. The lights were dim, but more were on below her. She moved toward the light, careful to step over the creaky loose board at the top of the stairs. 

“Don’t touch that!” she heard when she entered the dining room. The voice that had come from the kitchen was thick with an Irish brogue. Bridget, the Porters’ cook. Rose smelled apple pie. “It’s for Mr. Dalton next door. The poor man, alone in that house, spending the holidays by himself. That sweet boy of his is still missing in action.” 

“Will?” This voice was deep and laced with concern. Mr. Porter. 

“Yes,” Bridget said. “Used to help me carry the groceries when he was small.” 

“It’s a shame,” Mr. Porter said. “I’ll take this over in the morning. Pay George a visit.” 

“That would be kind of you,” Bridget said, her voice getting closer. She stopped short in the doorway. “Rose! I haven’t seen you around my kitchen all week. Can I fix you something?” 

Rose shifted, feeling uncomfortable with two sets of eyes on her. “No,” she said, turning back toward the staircase. “Thank you.” 

“Please sit,” Bridget said. “I’ve got that roast chicken you like. It’s no trouble to warm it up some.” 

“I…” Rose blinked in the dim light. “Alright.” 

It was the second to last night of the year, and the dining room was still decorated for Christmas. Pine boughs and bright red bows had been nailed to the cornice and unlit candles were cradled in holly in the center of the tables. 

_It’ll be like last year, you and me drinking lemonade and eating strawberries on the beach._

“Rose.” She jumped. Henry Porter was suddenly beside her. “Mrs. Dawson,” he corrected himself. “Please let me say how sorry I am for your loss. I can’t begin to...I should have offered my condolences sooner, but I know you’ve been feeling unwell. Please tell me if there’s anything I can do.” 

Rose felt herself swaying on her feet. Mr. Porter reached out and touched her elbow. 

“Please sit down,” he said. His hand lingered on her arm. “I’ll get you some water.” 

He left her sitting at the table and Rose wanted to run. She stood unsteadily, and then found herself standing outside in the cold, her feet sinking into the snow. A crescent moon hung above her, its tip thin and sharp. A dusting of snow was falling and Rose closed her eyes, feeling the flakes melt as they hit her skin.

She felt it then, a flutter of movement beneath her chest. Rose pressed a hand to her belly, bidding it to come again. It was the first time she’d felt it, the first time she had tangible, tactile proof that she wasn’t alone. She heard herself gasp when she felt it again. 

_Hello_ , she thought, pressing her fingertips around it. _Do you miss him as much as I do?_

She heard his voice, so close and so clear that he could have been standing beside her. 

_If something should happen, just remember that I will find my way back to you. Even if it seems hopeless. Even if it seems like I can’t. I will._

“Jack?” she whispered. Her breath puffed out around her in the frozen dark. Had this been what he meant? 

She wondered if this is what it meant to be haunted. She wondered if she’d simply gone mad. Rose closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she minded.

***

“…we believe it to be a side effect of the gas.”

He woke as though surfacing from the sea. The world was dark, but it was warm. There was a memory of cold, of hurt, but then it was gone and there was only now. He shifted, feeling cloth against his skin. The voice beside him continued. 

“We took the bullet out of his arm. There will be some scarring from the shrapnel, but his skin and eyes should heal with time, as long as the bandages stay in place. But his memory, we don’t know.” 

It was quiet after that. The man in the bed waited in darkness. Finally, another voice spoke. 

“It’s not him,” it said. “It’s not my son.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dalton. We thought there was a chance. He was found in severe shock. He couldn’t say who he was and his coat and identification were gone. Since your son was the only name unaccounted for, the medics assumed this had to be William.” 

“What about the rest of his unit? There must be someone I can speak to. Someone who knew him, someone who could - ” 

“He’s the only one,” the first voice said. There was the feeling of a hand on the mattress. “The only one left. All the others are gone. I am very sorry.” 

“I am, too.” There was a pause. “I suppose it was foolish to hope. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here at all.” 

There was movement then, and footsteps moving away. But they returned just as quickly. 

“Mr. Dalton, it isn’t my place to say, and I beg your pardon. But perhaps there is a way you can help each other.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“He’ll need care. Assistance until his eyes heal. I don’t know if you have the room to - ” 

“I don’t.” The words were hard, but the voice shook with sadness. “He’s not my son. He’s not...he’s not my responsibility.” 

“I suppose not. But, he was with your son’s regiment. If his memory does return, he might be able to tell you what happened to William. If answers are really what you want, he is the only one who may be able to give them to you.” 

It was quiet again. The man in the bed lay still.


	11. Chapter 11

_Winter, early 1918_

Rose was putting the children to bed one night when it happened. 

“Is your husband really dead?” Caroline asked. 

“Caroline!” Emmy gasped from across the room. 

“Papa said he’s dead,” Caroline hissed. She blinked up at Rose from her pillow, her blue eyes uncertain. 

“Yes,” Rose said. Cold fingers squeezed around her heart. 

Caroline looked like she was trying to work something out. “The princess thought the prince was dead once,” she said cautiously. “But he wasn’t.” 

“That’s true,” Rose said. She knew the story Caroline was talking about and she could remember the real version: the bluish tinge to Jack’s skin, the icicles in his hair, the sluggish way his eyes cracked open when she blew on their hands. “But he was only sleeping. This is different, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh,” Caroline said. She considered something else. “How do you know? The princess didn’t know he was sleeping until she used magic to wake him up. Maybe you could use magic too.” 

_There is no magic._ But Rose couldn’t say it and the room stayed quiet. Finally, Emmy whispered to her sister. “Magic’s not real.” 

“Is that true Miss Rose?” Caroline asked. 

“Sometimes it is,” Rose said. She thought she was saying it for Caroline’s sake, to let her be a little girl for a while longer. But there was something else that tugged at her. 

_I don’t care what I have to do, but I’m coming back to you. I need you to believe that._

“Why not this time?” 

“I don’t know,” Rose answered. “No one knows exactly how magic works, but it has to be believed. That’s part of what makes it magic. You have to keep looking for it, because you always know it when you see it.” 

Rose slipped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her once both girls had started to doze. She held a hand over her mouth and tried to shove the sobs back down her throat. 

“Are you alright?” 

Mr. Porter was crossing the hall. Rose wiped her hands across her face.

“Yes. I…” Rose stood up straight as he stopped in front of her. “Mr. Porter, I’d prefer it if you did not discuss my personal business with the children. It’s not appropriate.” 

His face darkened, but only for a moment. “Your personal business?” 

“My husband.” 

“Ah.” His eyes fell to the ring she still wore on her left hand. “They may have overheard me as I was expressing my sympathies. You know how sneaky they can be.” 

“I appreciate your sympathy,” Rose said. His eyes searched her for something that Rose hoped he wouldn’t find. “But please do be careful. For their sake.”

“You’re very fond of them, aren’t you?” 

“They’re lovely girls,” she said. Rose wasn’t sure when it had happened, but her back was pressed against the wall. “Never any trouble, even if they do eavesdrop.” 

“I wonder if you’ll join me for breakfast in my study tomorrow morning,” Mr. Porter said. He was so close that Rose could smell his breath. He still had a friendly smile on his lips. “We’ve been looking for a full time governess for the children and perhaps it’s worth discussing. That sort of work might appeal to you, now that your situation has changed.”

He’d said it mildly but Rose felt herself pale. _Did he know?_ She hadn’t told anyone else about her pregnancy. She knew the Porters wouldn’t be happy about it, and she needed more time to plan before she said anything. Now she worried that her secret wasn’t much of a secret at all. 

“Thank you,” she said slowly. “It’s kind of you to think of me. But the restaurant needs me and I enjoy my work there.” 

“I could pay you quite a bit more.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Porter. I’ll think it over.” Rose swallowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m dreadfully tired.” 

Rose took a wide step that swerved around him and was relieved when his footsteps didn’t follow her. She turned out of the hallway and stopped short at the sight of Mrs. Porter, sitting on a settee with her needlework in her lap. Rose nodded to her and crossed the room to the door that led to the stairs. 

“You’d do well to be mindful of him.” 

Rose turned. Mrs. Porter’s face was set in her usual scowl as she stood and reached for the door. But as she held it open, Rose caught something new in her eyes. A moment later, the door swung shut and Rose stood blinking on the staircase. She wondered if she hadn’t had the two of them all wrong, and the thought chased her across the house. 

She wanted to ask the girls about it, but the three of them were out at another meeting. Instead, Rose made herself a cup of tea and settled on the window seat with her notebook in her lap. She’d been writing most nights, sometimes just to keep track of the days. 

It was the middle of January now. Rose wondered if she should have left already, and gotten a head start to somewhere new before she started showing through her winter clothes. She’d only been staying in New York so Jack would know where to find her, and now Jack was gone. She could go anywhere. 

But traveling was always so much harder and less predictable in winter. The ground was frozen and the air bitterly cold, and so Rose had stayed where she was. Helena worried about the rabbits she sometimes saw in the park, but Frances told her they were just waiting for spring, burrowing underground until it was safe to come out again. Rose sometimes wondered if that’s what she was doing, too. 

She looked back down at the blank page. When the words wouldn’t come or when she didn’t know where to start, Rose wrote as though she was writing a letter. At first they’d all been addressed to Jack, but now she wrote to someone new. 

_Dear little one,  
I’m reading _Wuthering Heights _again. It’s an old copy that I’ve had for years, torn in some places but your papa mended it for me the last time I read it. I found an old train ticket inside that I must have been using as a bookmark then. It was for San Francisco. I’ll take you there someday. Papa and I liked it and so maybe you will too._

There was a noise beyond the window. Rose looked up and moved the curtains back with her pencil. Her window looked out on the backyard of the house next door and usually, the yard was empty. But tonight, a man was standing there. He stood still with his back to her and his face angled strangely toward the moonless sky. Thick white bandages wound from the bridge of his nose around the top of his head. 

He seemed to be looking at the stars. But his eyes were covered, so Rose knew he couldn’t be. She wondered if this was the man she’d heard Bridget and Mr. Porter talking about in the kitchen that night after Christmas, and her heart leapt. 

He’d been missing, and now he was back. Sometimes people they thought were gone came back. She’d read about it happening in the newspaper, and maybe it had happened in the house next door. Maybe it could happen other places, too. 

Rose knew this was different. She still had the telegram, shoved into her dresser drawer. She still knew what it said. But it would seem like a betrayal not to believe even a little. She had promised him that she would. 

_Even if it seems hopeless. Even if it seems like I can’t..._

She wondered, again, if maybe she was going mad. She remembered the woman Jack had described, who dressed up every night to wait for her long lost love to return to her. Was that who she was destined to be? Rose frowned. That wouldn’t have been what he wanted. It couldn’t have been. 

Tomorrow, she would go out into the world. She would go to work and then she would join Clara in Washington Square to hand out pamphlets and march across the park. And then she would find something new to read. 

Rose closed her notebook. When she looked back outside, the man was gone.

***

He liked the feeling of the cold air on his skin, but not for too long. It soothed the blisters and burns that stung beneath the bandages, but once the cold seeped beneath his collar or through his shoes, it began to make him nervous. He didn’t know why, but the feeling was incredibly unpleasant.

He assumed it must be because of where they’d found him. They said that he was a soldier. They said that he’d been on the front lines, lying in cold, dirty water at the bottom of a trench, surrounded by death. He didn’t remember it. At least, he didn’t think he did. But sometimes it was as though his body seemed to remember the things his mind couldn’t. 

The wind blew. He felt its icy breath on the back of his neck and his heart began to race. The door was six paces away. He’d counted them carefully on the way out. 

Mr. Dalton was in the room when he stepped inside. “There’s a chair four steps to your right,” he said. 

“Thank you.” He sat down gingerly, careful not to jostle the sling that held his left arm. He smelled and heard a fire, and he turned his face toward the direction of the heat. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Mr. Dalton said. “Wondering, really. About what you’d like me to call you.” 

The man thought this over. He didn’t remember what his name had been. “I don’t know.” 

“My son was named William,” Mr. Dalton said. His voice had gotten thick. “Will. Does that sound familiar to you at all?” 

“No.” He wanted to apologize, but something made him afraid to. 

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Dalton said after a moment. “I don’t mean to probe. The doctor said that could be painful for you.” 

“I’d like to help,” he said truthfully. “Sometimes it’s as though there are things just out of my reach. It’s strange. Maybe once I can see again it will all come back.” 

“Maybe,” Mr. Dalton said. “But until it does, perhaps we should settle on a name.” 

They cycled through a few: _James, Robert, Thomas, Charles, Joseph, Edward._ None of them seemed right. 

“Any of those would be fine,” the man said, wanting to be helpful. 

“Charles, then,” Mr. Dalton said. “That was my father’s name.” 

“Charles it is,” he said, even though it didn’t feel like him. 

“Once the bandages come off, we can try to get your picture in the newspaper,” Mr. Dalton said, breaking the silence again. “You must have a family, people who are looking for you. The girl who gave you that wedding ring must be worried sick.”

The man touched the thin metal band, and something flared at the front of his skull. He raised the hand without the ring and touched the bandages over his forehead. There had been a shock of heat and a flash of color. _Red._ He didn’t know how he knew that. It ached, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. 

“Are you alright?” Mr. Dalton asked. 

“Yes,” the man said quickly. This had happened before. It was usually outlines of strange shapes that shifted just out of view. Things that were familiar but were at the wrong angle or in the wrong order. But this time, just for a moment, they arranged themselves into a pair of eyes. He stayed quiet, not wanting them to disappear.


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t ever be alone with him. _Ever._ ” Helena’s eyes were dark. Clara looked ready to fight. 

Rose had waited a few days to tell them about the encounter with Mr. Porter. She had waited to see if he would ask about the job again, or if the feeling would go away. Neither had happened. But she’d felt his gaze on her while eating in the dining room or while she read on the sofa downstairs. She’d seen him watching her with a curiosity that seemed to border on amusement. 

“Has he ever…?” Rose trailed off, her face finishing the question. 

“There’ve been rumors,” Clara said. She looked across the room toward Helena. 

“Once during my first month here he told me the same thing about minding the children full time,” Helena said. “When I said no he told me I could be his _assistant_ because I have a head for figures.” 

“Someone has a head for figures alright,” Clara mumbled. 

“He got to be so insistent that I finally started wearing this.” Helena stuck out her hand, where the fake engagement ring she wore caught the dim light. “I bought it to wear at the store, but it works just as well here. Any time I have a date I have them pick me up on the corner and Porter just assumes I’m meeting the same man.”

“Does he have a name?” Rose asked, sipping a cup of ginger tea. “Your imaginary fiance?” 

“Milton,” Clara giggled. 

“My Milty,” Helena pretended to swoon. 

The door banged open and all three of them jumped. Rose almost expected to see Henry Porter, but instead it was Frances, her arms laden with a stack of fresh library books. 

“I’ve got Wharton, I’ve got Atherton, I’ve got Dickinson and the Brontës, I’ve got _The Voyage Out_ for Rose, and as a special delivery hot off the presses, I’ve got Newman.” She looked at Clara, who for once had been stunned into silence. “I’ve also got numb arms so if someone could - ”

“They published me?” Clara sprang to her feet. She grabbed the entire stack from Frances and threw it onto the bed. She pulled out the pamphlet and flipped through it until she found her essay. “They _did!_ ” She held it open so the rest of them could see. 

“Congratulations!” Rose said as Clara took a small bow. 

“This calls for a toast,” Helena said. She disappeared down the hall to her room and returned with a small bottle of brandy. 

“Contraband!” Clara said. “I love it.”

“In your honor, of course.” Helena collected the mismatched mugs lying around the room and poured two fingers each for herself, Frances, and Clara. “To our dear, brilliant friend and sister Clara Newman, who may single handedly make them give us all the right to vote, if only to shut her up. Give ‘em hell.” 

Clara guffawed as they clinked mugs together and drank. There was the sound of a door closing outside, and Frances turned to look out the window. “Who’s that?” she asked. Her cheeks were already flushed. 

The rest of them gathered at the window, their faces pressed to the cool glass. “That’s our next door neighbor,” Rose said. “He came home wounded. Now he likes to sit outside at night.” She felt them looking at her. “That’s all I know.” 

That wasn’t exactly true. She’d seen him the past three nights, and she had sat at the window watching him. Something seemed to pull her to him and she knew why: he reminded her of Jack. He never seemed to come outside during the day, but there were small things she’d seen as the moonlight grew, like the way he held his head or the way he absently ran his thumb over the pads of his fingers as though wiping away smudges of charcoal. But ever since the telegram, Rose seemed to see Jack everywhere: walking down the street, sitting at the counter at the restaurant, reading at a library table. She’d do a double take and find some other man where she thought he should be. 

Looking out the window, she knew it wasn’t him. She knew it _couldn’t_ be him. But sometimes she thought about the name she’d overheard in the kitchen. It was a common one, but she wondered if this stranger could possibly be the Will from Jack’s letters. She’d never learned his last name, but if she could just see his face, she could compare it with the drawings she had in the dresser. 

The night before, she’d gone outside to the backyard and tiptoed across the fresh snow. The tall fence prevented her from seeing him at all, but she knew he was there. She could hear him breathing. She had stood at the fence, trying to work up the courage to go next door and ring the bell. The idea that there might be someone who could tell her what had happened to him - what had stopped him from coming back to her - was overwhelming. It made her dizzy. 

“He looks handsome under all that,” Helena said. 

“How can you tell?” Frances asked. Her breath fogged the glass and she wiped it away. 

“He looks strong,” Helena shrugged. “Look how tall he is.” 

“Maybe you’ve found Milton after all,” Clara teased. She raised her mug to her lips again. “Right here in your own backyard. Almost.” 

“Is that what you were talking about when I came in?” Frances asked, turning back from the window. 

“We were talking about Porter,” Clara said, her eyes darkening again. “He made a pass at Rose the other night.” 

“He didn’t make a _pass_ at me,” Rose said, even though she knew what it was. What _he_ was. 

“Oh,” Frances wrinkled her nose. “He always seemed so nice until he was awful.” 

“That’s how the most awful ones are.” Helena said. 

“I thought, maybe, that he knew.” Rose had one arm lying across her belly and now she felt her muscles tighten protectively. 

“He doesn’t,” Helena said. 

“How do you know?” 

“Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not that kind of look.” There wasn’t a need to ask her what she meant. 

“He looks at everyone, but especially the pretty ones,” Clara said. She grinned as she stood and twirled in her altered pants and suspenders. “Which is why I don’t have to worry.” 

“Oh, stop,” Frances said, tugging her back down by the arm. “You’re lovely.” A look passed between them. 

“It’s why his wife is the way she is,” Helena said. “Imagine if your husband looked at everyone but you.” 

_Your husband._ Rose winced and tried to hide it behind another sip of tea. “I know how men like that are, but I hadn’t…” The room went strangely quiet and Rose understood. _Now that your situation has changed._ If a fake engagement ring had slowed him down, a real wedding ring would have been a locked door. Now the door had opened. “Oh.” 

Helena slipped her arm around Rose’s shoulders. 

“It’s strange,” Rose said. She felt their eyes on her, and she wished she could have some brandy to make it easier. “How sometimes I forget. Not really, not for long. I still miss him all the time. But sometimes, like when I first wake up in the morning and things are still fuzzy, it feels like he’s still over there and I’m still waiting.” 

“We all know how much you love him,” Frances said quietly. “And just because he’s...it doesn’t mean you just stop.” 

Rose nodded. She waited a moment and then leaned back. “He was wonderful. He saved my life. More than once. He saved _me._ ” She had already told them about the way they’d met. About the things they’d survived. “I can’t stop thinking about what it must have been like.” 

“You shouldn’t think about that,” Clara said. 

“He never let himself be afraid,” Rose said, ignoring her. “Maybe it was for my sake. But there was one night. Years ago. He was - we both had too much liquor, I think. He wondered if maybe he’d been supposed to die that night in the water. If he’d cheated it somehow. And now…” 

Rose stopped. She wondered if there was another reason they’d never been able to stay anywhere for more than a handful of weeks or months at a time. Why sometimes they ran like something was chasing them. Now it had caught him. She wouldn’t say it out loud, but sometimes she almost wished it would catch her, too.

***

He was sitting on the porch in the cool night air, waiting for her to come to him. He still couldn’t see her features or tell who she was, but he could tell from the shape of her that she was lovely. Sometimes her eyes flashed, beautiful and warm and sharp. But it was the feeling she gave him that he craved most of all. For the first time since waking up, he felt soothed and steady. Sturdy. Maybe even loved.

He hadn’t said anything about it to Mr. Dalton yet. He was worried his benefactor would be angry or disappointed with any memories that weren’t of his son. He wasn’t even sure that these were memories at all. She sometimes came to him in dreams, and he understood it was because she was the only thing he could remember seeing. There was nothing before her but an endless black wall. Maybe he’d simply been sitting in darkness for too long and his mind was playing tricks on him.

He shifted. He was concentrating too hard. She never came when he thought about it like this, like she wasn’t solid enough for him to call her. His headache pulsed. 

He could tell that his eyes were healing. Sometimes he saw light filtering dimly through the bandages. Like the images of the woman, he craved it and called it. But most of the time, it just left him with an ache behind his eyes. Sunlight was too hard. Moonlight was much more manageable. 

He stood and took a step forward. The snow was melting. He heard the ice crack under his feet. He wondered what he would do once he was on his own. Would he find people besides Mr. Dalton to talk to? Would he introduce himself as Charles? 

He practiced saying it sometimes when he was sure he was alone. _Hello. I’m Charles._ Charles what? There was too much to fill in, too much he didn’t know. 

He took a breath and coughed. His lungs still burned, even in the cold. It hurt, but it reminded him of where he was, and he was grateful for that. Anything that grounded him, even pain, was welcome. 

He tilted his head back to the sky. The light was brighter tonight, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of the moon or because of his eyes. Sometimes he couldn’t tell where he ended and the sky began. He blinked, enjoying the subtle difference between open and closed. It would have to be enough for tonight.


End file.
